Dire Wolves of London Read online

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Wolf’s Bane

  Also by Carina Wilder

  Dire Wolves of London

  Dire Wolves, Book Two

  Carina Wilder

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Wolf’s Bane

  Also by Carina Wilder

  Foreword

  The Dire Wolves of London Series:

  Alpha’s Mate

  Dire Wolves of London

  Wolf’s Bane

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  Carina Wilder's Mailing List

  The Dragon Guild Chronicles:

  Dragon Hunter

  Dragon Seeker

  Dragon’s Lover

  Dragon’s Curse

  Dragon’s Bane

  Dragon’s Kiss (A Prequel Novella)

  1

  The darkness.

  That was where Sinead lived now.

  She had no idea how long she’d inhabited this world. There were no windows. No daylight to guide her through the day’s hours. No digital display to remind her of the passage of time. Hours could have been minutes for all she knew; her addled mind was too far gone to process much of anything.

  At times she wondered if she might be dreaming, or even dead. But the thing was, she couldn’t be. She still felt too much. Too much cold, too much torment. Too much sadness.

  Her cell was frigid and damp, its awful smell a reminder that she was a permanent resident of some sort of subterranean hell conceived and manufactured by humans. The only evidence of the world outside came on the rare occasion when a guard would slip a little stale bread and water through the minuscule opening in her thick wooden door. They must have known that she wasn’t interested in eating, though, because the visits had become less and less frequent. Perhaps they were trying, very slowly, to put her out of her misery.

  When she heard footsteps approach on rare occasions, she told herself that she should have been happy to hear evidence of someone—anyone, really. But happiness, or even basic contentment, had long since turned into a foreign concept in her mind. The world had gone so damned fuzzy since her incarceration. Her head spun with thoughts that never quite came to fruition, memories so abstract that she was never quite sure if they were hers or someone else’s. Hallucinations brought on by something outside of herself.

  The men who’d brought her here must have done something to her. Drugged her, she supposed, through some kind of quick injection on the first day. Or maybe it was some sort of gas that they were pumping in through the ventilation system. No doubt it was an attempt on the part of her captors to keep her Lioness at bay. They probably wanted to ensure that she wouldn’t tear their spleens out with her teeth. That is, if they ever dared come near her.

  But they didn’t need to worry. Sinead had long since lost every shred of energy. She had no drive, no ambition to fight, not even for her life. No desire to summon her déor. Her Lioness had slipped away to a far-off place, and Sinead wasn’t sure she’d ever find her again. The horrible truth was that she was alone now.

  Helpless.

  For the first time in many years, a crippling, corrosive loneliness ate at her gut. In rare moments of clarity, she found herself wishing she’d taken a mate when she’d been free, when she’d had the chance at a life. She would have given anything to know that someone—anyone at all—was out there somewhere, thinking of her.

  She wished, for the first time in her life, that she’d learned what it was to love.

  2

  A.S.T.F.

  Those were the only letters on the shiny new sign that stood outside the elegant building of grey stone tucked into a quiet street at London’s north end.

  Nothing—no emblem, no logo—connected the location to Scotland Yard. There was no explanation of the acronym’s meaning. No incriminating signs of fascism, no grim hints that behind the doors of the forbidding establishment was a throng of humans who would love nothing more than to take down an entire species for sport.

  But the two men sitting in the black Peugeot sedan knew exactly what those sodding letters stood for.

  “Anti-Shifter Task Force,” muttered Brigg, his tone laced with bitterness as he stared out the window on the driver’s side.

  He’d been dreading this meeting’s arrival. It was hard to put on a brave face when he knew full well that he was about to risk everything—his job, his life, even his newly-formed friendship with the man to his left—all for the greater good of his new pack.

  “Those letters should stand for Arseholes, Shites, Tossers and Fucks,” Cillian replied. “What a bunch of wankers, acting all coy about it so the public has no idea what they’re up to in there. For all that the sign tells us, this place could be a pastry shop. I mean, it hardly looks like a house of horrors, does it?”

  “Quite right, yet we both know that’s just what it is. And like an absolute fool, I’m about to step inside,” said Brigg, setting his jaw as he reminded himself what a bad idea it was for a shifter to march straight into what could very well turn out to be his untimely grave. “Of course, we don’t know exactly what they’re up to, do we? Only that they’ve been rounding up our kind for some days. My colleague at Scotland Yard only told me that the task force existed, but even he didn’t know what they’re up to. Said it’s all very hush-hush, which usually means utterly fucking illegal.”

  “Don’t worry, my friend,” Cillian said. “I’m sure they’re just escorting shifters in, offering them some ice cream and sending them on their way with a jaunty new cap that reads I Survived the Fucking Task Force, Baby.”

  Brigg laughed, grateful for the temporary respite from tension. “Good to know.” A sigh escaped his lips, and then the tension was back. “But seriously, tell me again why I’m doing this, would you?”

  “Because you wanted to help the pack, and you came up with the brilliant idea of meeting with the powers that be,” Cillian replied, a wry smile curling his lips. “This was supposed to be your clever way of infiltrating the task force and working as our double agent. You do work for Scotland Yard, remember. You’re the only one capable of waltzing in there without arousing suspicion.”
>
  “Oh yes. Silly me, I’d quite forgotten. Well, I suppose I ought to admit that I’m currently in the process of seriously reconsidering my choice of career.” Brigg tightened the wool scarf that was wrapped around his neck as if in preparation for a potential hanging. “I’d think about quitting one of these days, if not for the fact that I seem to be the only double agent in town.”

  “You should quit, really,” Cillian replied. “I didn’t vote for this mission. Quite honestly, I’m not keen on losing you to a bunch of small-dicked psychos just yet. I still need you as my drinking mate.”

  “Why thank you, Cill,” Brigg replied. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  “Well, I meant every word of it. They really do have tiny dicks.”

  The two men had only known each other a few weeks, but they’d become fast friends. They were opposites in most ways, a fact that only seemed to cement their bond; Brigg was serious and restrained, his full-time investigative brain always on the lookout for potential threats. His Wolf was a lone hunter, a stalker who’d grown accustomed over the years to solitude and independence.

  Cillian’s Wolf, on the other hand, had grown up among others of his kind. He knew instinctively how to move within a pack, to work alongside others while hunting down their enemies. His human side was known among the Trekilling Pack as the man-most-likely-to-be-charming, the bloke who could walk into a pub and instantly draw every set of woman’s lustful eyes to his face. Brown hair, a jawline coated with a thin layer of stubble, a smile that earned immediate trust and immediate invitations to escort any ladies present to their homes. As a bonus, he tended to see humour in almost everything, including potentially perilous situations.

  For that, Brigg appreciated his company no end, particularly today.

  “If you must go in,” Cillian continued, his tone going serious for a moment, “think of it as a gift to our pack. Maybe you can find out what exactly is going on in there. Once we know, it’ll be easier to make a plan. We need to understand their strategies before we can figure out how to protect our own from further danger.”

  “Right though you may be, I’m not actually sure that’s enough reason to walk into a place whose inhabitants would probably love to slice my head off in order to examine it and assess my genetic makeup. I may as well dive into a piranha-filled pool as waltz into this joint.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Cillian replied. “You’d be foolish to go near the place. You’re much more handsome with your head intact. But…remember what Roth said, too. He seems invested in this little meet-and-greet of yours, for some reason.”

  Brigg ground his jaw as he thought back to the last conversation he’d had with the Trekilling Pack’s Alpha. A strange look had taken up residence in Roth’s eyes, his mind seeming to move a million miles away as he’d spoken, as though he were connecting with some strange, distant vision.

  “He did tell me that he thinks our fates are tied up in whatever lies beyond those doors,” Brigg replied with a nod. “Whatever that means. That Alpha of ours can be more than a little cryptic.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s somewhat like another man I know.”

  Brigg swung around to stare at Cillian, a look of faux-shock on his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Cillian chuckled. “It means you keep your cards so tight to your chest that I’m surprised they haven’t embedded themselves into your pectoral muscles yet, you wanker. I’ve spent many a night with you, drinking and talking into the wee small hours, and yet I know shite-all about you.”

  It was true, of course; Brigg kept his distance from everyone, mentally as well as physically. He had his damned reasons, though, and so far, Cillian had been intelligent enough not to pry too deeply into his psyche.

  When Brigg didn’t respond, the other shifter added, “You and Roth could be twins, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re paler than he is. Pasty, even.”

  “Not pasty,” said Brigg, smiling. “I avoid the sun on account of my northern roots.”

  “Vain fucker,” Cillian laughed.

  “So rude.”

  “Oh, come on. You know I think you’re handsome as all hell. Loosen up, my friend, or you’ll tie yourself in a knot. Listen, I get that this is hard for you. But I know you a little by now. You’re strong, and your Wolf is even stronger. You’ve spent your life tracking killers and taking them on. You can survive this meeting in one piece. I know you can.”

  “A meeting with a man whose only goal is to take us down,” Brigg mumbled. “It may well be that the task force intends to kill us off, which means that I won’t stand a chance if I give myself away.”

  “So that’s what you’re worried about. You think your Dire Wolf might show himself.”

  Brigg nodded. “It’s absurd, really. I’ve concealed him from my colleagues for decades. But something inside me is on high alert; it’s almost as though my Wolf knows that he’s in danger. I’m having a bit of a hard time fighting him back today.” He turned once again to look at the building. “Something in there is calling to him, summoning him. I don’t know what, but it’s making him—okay, us—uneasy.”

  “It’ll be all right,” said Cillian. “Besides, what’s the worst that the director could do?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. He could lock me up and shove the key up his arse?” Brigg turned to his friend, a hard frown dragging the corners of his lips down. He grabbed the handle of the car’s door. “If I’m not out in two hours, call on the Dragons. Tell them that things have taken a turn for the worse.”

  “Will do,” Cillian replied. But even as Brigg prepared to slip out, his companion stopped him. “Listen,” he said, “Roth wouldn’t steer you wrong. He’s a good Alpha, and now that he’s come into his full strength, I trust him more than ever. Take comfort in the knowledge that he wanted this meeting to happen. There’s a reason for that, whether we understand it or not.”

  “He’s a good man. I know.” With that, Brigg popped open the door. Without another word he made his way towards the building.

  He could only hope that no Dragons would have to be summoned today.

 

  3

  Brigg’s throat had gone dry by the time he’d slipped inside the building and marched down the hall to the door labelled Director Robert Collins.

  His hand trembled as he lifted it towards the handle, his Dire Wolf’s deeply honed instincts reminding him once again that this meeting was probably a very bad idea. This Collins might be a savvy fellow; he might know the tell-tale signs of a shifter by now. If he figured out what Brigg was, the jig would be up. Life as he knew it would end, and probably not in a particularly pleasant way.

  Doesn’t matter how big the risk, he thought. It’s not like I have a choice now. This is too important.

  His resolve hardened and he pushed the door open and stepped inside, only to find himself in a waiting room of some sort, complete with a receptionist, an assortment of unattractive chairs, and rickety wooden table coated in outdated magazines.

  When the receptionist’s eyes met his, she studied him intently as humans often did, no doubt trying to sort out what made him tick. Brigg pushed his Wolf away, commanding him to conceal himself. Almost immediately, the woman seemed to lose interest.

  “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to a chair that sat against the far wall. “He’ll be with you in a moment.” With that, she went back to playing some game or other on her mobile. Candy Pummel or Bonbon Bash or whatever the hell it was called.

  What a thing, Brigg thought as he took a seat in an uncomfortably small vinyl-upholstered chair, to live such a responsibility-free life that you can devote your energy to exploding colourful candies on a small screen without fear of being punished for your genes. What a thing to live wrapped up in the blissful privilege of normalcy.

  To be fair, he preferred the idea of living in fear to that of living as a human. Even during the worst moments of his life when he’d found himself utterly alone, isola
ted and terrified, he’d never once wished his animal away. His Dire Wolf was as much part of him as his heart was, and the idea of surrendering him in favour of a banal, predictable life didn’t appeal, even if it would have meant a existence of relative comfort and safety.

  “Mr. Brigg,” a voice called out, yanking him out of his thoughts. He looked up to see the face of the man who must be Director Collins: a short, oily, red-faced piece of work who definitely lived up to his inhuman reputation as the leader of a band of miscreants. He also seemed to be in serious denial about his hair loss, a poorly-distributed comb-over providing horrific evidence that he didn’t possess an ounce of good taste or judgment. “Come on in.”

  Silently, Brigg rose to his feet and followed, a would-be prisoner walking towards the chamber that could very well spell the end of his life. It seemed unlikely that he’d meet his doom just now, however. It was impossible to ignore how much taller he was than Collins; how he could break the short, squat man in two if he wanted to.

  His Dire Wolf knew it, too. We can take him, he growled into Brigg’s mind. We can end this, here and now.

  Calm, he told the beast that paced inside him. Stay calm. Don’t show your anger. Don’t let him see you. Don’t give him the satisfaction of uncovering your existence. If Collins found you out, he’d see it as a victory.

  “Raymond, is it?” asked the director as he shut the door behind them.